Mouth
by vargrimar
Summary: Junkrat never imagined she'd be so good with her mouth. Something quick and dirty; Junkrat/Symmetra.


Jamison never imagined she'd be so good with her mouth.

He doesn't understand it. She uses such gorgeous words and elegant phrases; she talks with a dignified air and she makes the world feel like it should succumb to her artistry. She forms thin frowns, firm indifference, and even the slim curves of rare smiles with those tempting lips— _smiling_ , that's mental—and she seems so incredibly perfect.

Even the way she eats is prim and proper. He's never seen so much precision and care pooled into stuffing something into someone's gob. Normally, he'd think such a thing were useless and stupid, that no one should spend so much time worried about how the fork's held or how the food's arranged or how it looks going in anybody's mouth because it's _food_ for fuck's sake; nobody else is gonna care and it's just going down your belly anyway.

He's wrong. He's so, so very wrong. And he's never been more glad to be wrong in his life.

Symmetra is down between his knees on the workshop floor, sucking on the tip of his cock like—god, he doesn't know, it's _insane_ ; it's like she's been watching him when he's alone under the water of the showers or when he's sprawled out over the mattress in the empty barracks around mid-afternoon, like she's been mapping every little thing he does to himself, every touch, every stroke, and she's rubbing so carefully downward with her fingers as her lips frame the end of him and _he can't fucking stand it_.

"Driving me mad, here, love," he breathes, threading his good hand through the lush black of her hair. His heart drums behind his ribs and the little movements she makes twists pleasure up his spine, and he's so hard it almost hurts.

She smirks and lathers him down with her tongue, not seeming to care in the slightest. Jamison clenches his prosthetic into the armrest and he tugs at her scalp with a tense grip, but that's all he can bring himself to do. This came out of fucking nowhere, absolutely blindsiding him with her pressing a kiss to his mouth and tugging down his trousers with a deft hand, and he swears to god if he does something stupid to make this stop, he's going to blow up half the bloody compound.

"C'mon," he says, lifting his hips, "hah, c'mon, little more, ah, lemme in—"

With a low hum, Symmetra parts her lips and guides his cock between them, her thumb and forefinger working a torturously slow rhythm up from the very base. Wetness slathers his nerves and it feels as though his brain is sparking; his fingers twitch against the back of her head, eager and anxious and wanting to _grab_ , but he restrains himself because, fuck, he's a gentleman; he might be a bloody criminal but he's a _gentleman_ and he's not going to shove her down onto him like he's aching so badly to do. He's not going to tear off her Vishkar blouse and he's not going to rip her knickers and he's not fuck her on the bloody table because he's a god damn _gentleman_.

Jamison sucks in a hot breath and stars swirl behind his eyes. He fucking hates being like this.

"That's—that's perfect," he says, hoping to encourage her further.

Her mouth pulls him in and soaks him through and her tongue is far too generous, how does she _do_ this, and he finds that with the gentle work of each slow thrust, words become more and more difficult to find.

The vivid color of her eyes trace up the blond thatch of hair between his legs to the edges of his hipbones and up to the plane his chest, and he can't quite express just how pleased he is that she's eyeing him up all while giving him head. He wants to scoop her up and bury his mouth against her to see just how good she tastes, but the world is spinning and heat knits through his lower belly and her lips draw delicious pressure down his girth and— _fuck_ , he wants her so bad.

When Symmetra picks up the pace, a hot moan draws out of his throat and he shivers under her care. The metal of her prosthetic hand squeezes at his right thigh, fingers massaging through his muscles, and all he can do is rock his hips upward and hope she keeps going because that warm tightening coils down beneath and he knows he's getting so very close.

She's so gorgeous, he thinks, beyond anything in the world; her wonderfully dark skin and the beautiful contours of her face and the adorable little mark by her lips, and, just, _god_ , her _mouth_ , how the fuck is she doing this—please, he has no idea how this happened, why is such a stunning woman sucking him off in this place, she shouldn't be with a mess like him—but she bobs down in a deep thrust and he's destroying the perfect fall of her hair and his mind is nothing but _fuck please please let me come_ and then he can't think anymore.

Jamison groans toward the ceiling and shoves his hips upward and pulls her close as hot, fierce pleasure spools through him. She draws him in, the flat of her tongue against his cock and her mouth applying the perfect suction; it's enough to make everything spark and burst and her fingers still rub at his thickest and he can do nothing but gnash his teeth and breathe her name.

Spent and speechless, he leans backward in a trembling arc, his hand still entwined with her hair. He watches her as she licks up the remnants, saliva dripping down the length of him, and he snaps in a shiver under the sheer sensitivity.

"Fuck," he says, and he knows he shouldn't have—what do you say to a bombshell woman who not only just brought you to one of the best orgasms you've had in, well, a _really_ long time, but who also swallowed every last drop and lathered you utterly spotless?

Symmetra traces a finger at the side of her mouth, swiping away the excess. "I hope that was satisfactory."

"S—satisfactory? What? Are you mental?" Fuck, he shouldn't have said that, either. His mouth is going to get him killed.

She draws up between his legs and maps up the sides of his belly with her hands. Cool metal smooths over his muscles, and although he isn't unfamiliar with the sensation, and it's a different kind of pleasurable with her, dropping gentle quivers up and along his ribs.

"I'm going to interpret that as a yes." Symmetra leans over him, and her lips curve into this absolutely incredible smirk that needs kissed. "Are you always so uncouth after something like this?"

No, he thinks, only with you, but he swallows and says, "Probably," instead.

Before she can make some other remark he knows he'll respond poorly to, he grips the fabric of her blouse and tugs her down into a searing kiss. Her mouth is warm and soft and so perfect—he can taste himself on her tongue, thick and strong and salty, and he wonders how she might taste with him dripping out of her and soaking between her thighs.

"'Nother round?" Jamison runs his hands down her back and cups the delightful curve of her rear, coaxing her closer and wanting so very badly to see her out of her form fitting slacks. There are so many things he could do, _so many_ , and he finds himself pawing at her waistband with restrained eagerness. Her lips are too good, too perfect; her mouth _belongs_ on him and he hopes he doesn't sound too desperate.

Symmetra only smiles. "Just what I had in mind."


End file.
